


Merry Ol' Time

by NoelleAngelFyre



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV), The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Canon/Original Character pairings, Christmas Traditions (sort of), Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Discussions of Romantic Escapades, Established Friendship, Gen, Two women of questionable sanity shooting the breeze on Christmas Eve, Unsolicited Therapy, girl time, relationship origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8874361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: To the year laid ahead, and to being right back here next Christmas - life is a merry thing.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have been begged by a dear friend to write this crossover for quite some time; in the interests of the "season of giving", I have conceded and this is the end result. And BOY did I have a lot of fun writing this.
> 
> So, for my beloved fans/followers/readers of my Gotham series ("Tiger, Tiger" and "The Game" - to date) and my series for The Flash ("Fire and Gunpowder") - you are very familiar with these two leading ladies. For newcomers, you'll probably have to skim through my series to understand; the explanation is WAY too long for an author's note. :)
> 
> To put this little episode into context - consider it a holiday-themed side-dish, taking place after the final segments of both "The Game" and "Fire and Gunpowder". There is a little spoiler alert for what's to come in Iris' future - and yes, a follow-up Gotham series is in the works; have no fear. :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Batman or The Flash, nor do I claim any right to affiliated characters, themes, plot points, etc. I own my beloved girls Iris DeLaine and Anastazia Darbinyan, nothing more. Thank you all - and have a very Merry Christmas!!

The bar is dressed for the holiday: baubles of luscious red, emerald green, sunset gold—the traditional hues, to be sure—are matched by unorthodox pinks and purple; the lights strung along each wall are of pale gold and white to compliment the garland with which they are entwined for a more elaborate display. The grand vision of a Christmas tree rests in the far corner, opposite the polished cherry-wood counter, every branch adorned without exception. It is from this corner that light radiates and floods the room; everything else is a mere accent to the tree’s glory.

At the hearth—a handsome red-brick structure to match the wood furniture—an old bearskin rug cushions a pair of chairs, equally rustic in their construction and fashion, seated near a merry blaze crackling in its bed of logs. A few hours prior, this place was stuffed to the brim with customers joyously anticipating the time to open presents and eat inordinate amounts of food.

Tonight, it is a quiet reserve for two: the first waits patiently for the second, reclining before the hearth without haste. There has never been a grand sense of urgency attached to this night. For all the mayhem and madness that is their lives—both of them, as long as either could remember of the other—tonight is when the world spins on a gentler axis.

A burst of chill brushes the cheek, and lips curve into a knowing smile. “You have always been terrible with time.”

“I am a mistress of time, thank you kindly.” The second patron of this establishment—and only additional person to enter wood-carved double doors for the next twelve hours—sweeps in, as she is ever known to do, with a casual dispensing of black leather over the back of her chair. “It abides by my every command, and as such, I arrive _exactly_ when I intend to arrive. Not a moment thereafter.”

It explains much, which is to say it is no more an explanation than one could possibly expect from this woman. She waltzed in two hours past the designated start of her own birthday gala, some ten years prior, and has entered on a watch of her own making ever since.

There was a certain sense of admiration attached to such a devil-may-care presence, most particularly—if not exclusively—when present in a young lady of renown, _nee_ notoriety by unfortunate parental relational (something Iris knows only too well). The night of a girl’s sixteenth year, presented in crisp invitations for all the higher class, near and far and otherwise, and dressed lavishly in expensive palates and marble halls, is something one attends, whether interested or not—Iris couldn’t, after so long, recall if she was one or the other—by the stark principle of propriety and for purposes of furthering connections. At barely eight years of age, she had little to do with the latter and was wrangled forcefully into the former. As such, her entrance to the grand hall, permitted for once to trail behind both parents, had been reluctant and, surely by that point, disinterested.

And then a voice, faceless apparition at the moment of speaking, hissed an urgent inquiry about any guards loitering about. Following an answer to the contrary, its owner emerged with blonde hair tussled wildly and a dress—the kind teenage girls fantasize about to present themselves as queen of their prom night—smudged and snagged from some sort of expedition in the back garden. Appearing at the party was out of the question, in such a condition. The only alternative was to make escape for the park, some two miles away, and as a volunteered partner-in-crime, Iris was stolen away with this strange creature and given no chance to object or question the matter.

“You had a good time, and you know it.” Anastazia—yes, she has since dissected her name into a shorter, sharper, pair of syllables, but Iris has always been partial to her friend’s birth name—comments, as the abbreviated stroll down memory lane comes to a close.

“We were the best dressed park-goers that night.” Iris adds, as way of agreement. The air around them is a pleasant oasis of firelight and symphonic tunes pouring out from the stereo system, heralding Christmas carols at low volume.

The years have done them both well: a decade’s worth of letters was all to follow their sporadic introduction and friendship—after all, the spark of chemistry between them was far too potent and pleasant to despair of and cast aside, once each returned to her own city—and they come together in this quiet little place after what seems a lifetime has passed. Such is expressed in idle conversation, for the next hour or two (who, really, is keeping track of time?). Anastazia makes no hesitancy expressing pleasure in Iris’ abandonment of “those cheap white rags”, and Iris, for her part, quietly approves that which is best left appreciated and not questioned further: the intricate design of copper, platinum, and gold which replaces a simpler shade of blonde; the vibrancy of violet irises, and the familiarity with which Anastazia regards the flames dancing in their hearth.

“Speaking of change,” from her left pocket, crimson-tipped fingers retrieve a cigarette and place it to lips painted a similar shade (Iris says nothing when the cigarette is lit without the noticeable presence of a lighter, but what appears to be nothing more than the flick of index and thumb together), “I heard you kicked out a little rugrat not too long ago.”

“There was more screaming than kicking.” Iris answers smoothly, a hint of affection curving her lips. “But yes.”

A pale eyebrow bounces high, “Don’t tell me you had that thing _au natural_?”

“She gave me no choice in the matter.”

Now, a wicked smirk, “Fresh from the womb, and she’s already making the rules. _That_ ’s definitely your kid.”

_As it would be yours_ , Iris thinks but doesn’t say. She knows this woman only too well: eight years her senior, and blissfully absent any desire for marriage and children. It came as a shock, in fact, to receive a letter three years ago and learn her friend’s heart had been stolen so abruptly. She was obliged to inquire, half-mockingly and half with great sincerity (so noteworthy was the occasion) when she might need to send a wedding gift.

Anastazia replied with her usual good humor and lack of tact, assuring that neither her nor her paramour were of the “wed and bed” persuasion.

“More the latter than the former, to be sure.” Iris wrote in response. Anastazia possessed no qualms about christening her a “cheeky brat,” and did so in her next letter.

Now, after well a year since any mention of the matter, Iris resumes the discussion. Violet eyes roll (with more dramatic emphasis than necessary), and Anastazia releases a slow stream of smoke before answering, “I took his last name. He knows not to push it.”

“Practically a declaration of marital vows.” Iris smiles thinly, then refocuses attention. “Do I detect rosemary?”

“And a few other of Nature’s offerings.” Another lazy curl of smoke coils through the air. “Helps with my throat. What?” she smirks. “Did you think I took up that nasty habit? I rather enjoy not reeking like a burning dumpster, thank you.”

“Vain creature.”

“Presumptuous little princess.”

From there, they fall into comfortable silence. The bar keeper has emerged from his little backroom with a generous offering of eggnog, topped with whipped cream and sprinkled light with nutmeg, in matching mugs of chocolate-brown and red trim. Anastazia flicks the half-burned cigarette into the hearth and sweeps a bit of whipped cream on one finger before deftly sucking it clean. Iris is a bit daintier on the matter. Of course, she always has been. It is one of several differences between them which makes for good conversation and an undying flame of kindred between them.

At half past nine, Anastazia breaks the silence with the lighting of another little stick. This time, she simply extends the tip into the flame until it sparks red. She’s much too close to such heat for comfort, and barely blinks for it. Still, Iris does not address the matter. It is the crux of their bond: to leave that which doesn’t need mentioning in the silence of thoughts, and never let it taint the way one regards the other.

Of course, they are cut from the same cloth, so it is unlikely any of each other’s quiet deficiencies—Anastazia has always been a devoted worshipper of Life and its thrills provided to the soul driven enough to seek them, and Iris possesses a cool apathy for the sufferings of those pre-designated to be classified as undignified and, to summarize, poorer quality of life—would truly offset the balance. Still, best not to test the theory. They are each devout students of human nature, and have seen how little is required to sever what previously was a pleasant and fulfilling relationship. To press the boundaries is unwise.

“What’s her name?”

“Celeste.” Iris answers, not needing explanation. Anastazia has a way of retracing steps in conversation and resuming a prior topic as though it was never abandoned.

“You’ve always had affection for moonlight.” She notes, an approving half-smile formed around the cigarette before she expels another breath.

“As you have the sun.” Iris lightly crosses one knee with a rustle of dark denim. “A vibrant creature of the light, to your core.”

“Mm.” The cigarette loiters a moment longer at her lips, a thoughtful gesture. “Of course, wolves are always at their prime in the night. Does she have your eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Dark hair?”

“Gold.” Iris smiles with unashamed affection. “My little spark of firelight.”

“Ah, so _that_ ’s it. I knew there was a glow about you.”

Slim eyebrows arch to compliment a coy smile. “The lights reflecting off my hair?”

“That too.” Anastazia smirks. “And the little halo of maternity hanging over your pretty head. It suits you.”

“Did you suppose I would be the type to hire a governess and deposit my child into her care, with never a sparing thought thereafter?”

“Crossed my mind.” She finishes the second cigarette and tosses it to join the other in hungry flames. “But that’s your way, isn’t it? A mother wolf born and built to take care of her little pups. Not everyone’s cut out for it.”

“Have you considered it, Anastazia?” To humor the questioning look, she adds, “Giving birth to a full litter of little daredevils?”

“Kyle doesn’t want kids.” She answers, without missing a beat. “And I’m no doting mother. Ties you down too much; brings a bunch of responsibilities and other crap into the picture.”

“Not to mention,” Iris continues on her behalf, “the need to consider someone beyond yourself.”

“That your unsubtle way of calling me a self-centered egotist?”

“You live for Life.” The dark-haired woman replies, lightly tracing polished wood beneath her fingertips. “It has made you both drug and addiction, constantly feeding off each other. You dash through life without second thoughts or care for consequences, because the craving is embedded in your blood and you have no desire to withdraw from it. You keep a lover because he has tasted your potency and remains addicted to Life, not for itself but because _you_ are so vehemently woven into the fabric of living this life that one cannot separate the two. And, I believe (though with no small surprise) your heart beats genuinely for him. Your worlds are happily joined in the thrall of living on your own terms. To bring life into this world would be to sacrifice your indulgency. You could not live as you do, now, without the risk of never coming home to your child—for it is a risk you readily take, day by day. And for all your quirks, Anastazia, I find you wholly incapable of orphaning your own flesh and blood.”

Silence beats between them—only shortly—and then the other woman huffs amusement and, with a swift execution of movement, twirls to the left and tosses both legs over the armrest. “You know, if I want someone to poke my brain and air out all the dirty laundry, I’d hire a shrink.”

“Why bother?” Iris smiles, razor-sharp and treading the obscure line between affectionate and dangerous, “I demand no monetary compensation for services.”

“True. Maybe I’ll keep you around.”

“I should hope so.” The smile now promises a bit more affection. “I have grown rather fond of our arrangement.”

“You make it sound almost scandalous, Princess.” It is an age-old term of endearment (and, subsequently, derision). “You like what you see so much that we need to move upstairs?”

“Perhaps when my beloved has delivered himself into a grave and you have grown tired of your familiar.” Iris murmurs. “Neither of which I foresee coming to fruition any time soon.”

Anastazia flashes a sharp grin, and in the flames her eyes gleam a little brighter. “And so the world keeps turning.”

“And so it does, merrily so.” One hand takes hold of her mug, still half-full, and lifts it in a toast. “To the year laid before us, then.”

“And to being right back here next Christmas.” Anastazia concludes, chinking her mug to the proffered before taking a long draught. “Maybe I can be convinced to let you bring the rugrat along.”

“Or you could come by and pay us a visit.” Her tone is light and her eyes wrought with mischief. “I am presently in the market for babysitters.”

“Dream on, Princess.”


End file.
